The dirt communicates to me in whispers others can't hear.
I kneel in my hidden garden behind our cottage, fingers buried in black ground as early light streams through apple branches. The soil vibrates with secrets—where water collects beneath the surface, which nutrients are deficient, and how the roots stretch and yearn in the darkness.
"Tell me what you need," I mutter, noting the small difference between good soil and that which needs attention.
A small tingling sensation travels up my arms as I work my fingers deeper. This is dangerous—using my gift so openly—but daylight has barely broken, and our home is at the edge of Ferndale hamlet, away from prying eyes.
Mother tells me constantly, "Keep your magic hidden, Briar. The king's Inquisitors look for those with gifts."
I haven't seen Inquisitors in Ferndale for years, but their reputation lingers—men and women in silver-trimmed cloaks who take the magically gifted to the capital, never to return. Some say they're killed. Others whisper they serve in the palace. No one really knows.
My seedlings quiver as I touch them, responding to the magic coming from my fingertips. Just a little encouragement for the healing herbs—nothing spectacular enough to grab attention. The thyme extends skyward, leaves unfurling. The chamomile strengthens its stems. The rosemary releases its scent in thankfulness.
"Briar!" Mother calls from the cottage. "The bread needs tending!"
I brush soil from my hands and cast one last look at my secret garden. Nothing immediately supernatural to the untrained eye—just a surprisingly flourishing garden in our otherwise regular yard.
Inside our cottage, Mother kneads dough as Father replaces a chair leg. Our home is simple but comfortable—wooden beams blackened by years of hearth smoke, dried herbs hanging from rafters, and the fragrance of fresh bread and pine sap.
"You were out there too long," Mother chides, her eyes darting nervously to the windows. "Someone might see."
"It's barely dawn," I reply, washing my hands in the basin. "And I was careful."
Father looks up from his work. "Strange weather is coming. Heard from vendors yesterday that the Northern provinces are already seeing frost."
"In early autumn?" I ask, helping Mother shape the dough into loaves.
He nods grimly. "They believe the royal gardens are dying too. That's the fifth gardener Prince Thorne has gone through this year."
My hands freeze mid-motion. "Gone through?"
Mother gives Father a stern look. "Hush with that talk."
"She should know the dangers," Father replies softly. "Better to fear than be taken unaware."
"What happened to the gardeners?" I press.
Father lowers his voice. "People believe the prince executed them for failing to maintain the gardens. They say he's as cold as winter itself—no mercy, no patience."
"They're just rumors," Mother maintains, but her knuckles whiten as she punches down the dough.
I've never seen the capital city of Thornwall or its legendary royal gardens, but travelers speak of them with awe—magical plants that power the kingdom's protective barriers and roses with thorns sharp as swords that bloom along the kingdom's boundaries. The thornwall roses give our country its name, a living barrier against old adversaries.
"Why would the gardens die?" I ask. "Aren't they maintained by royal gardeners with earth magic?"
"Magic's been strange lately," Father murmurs. "Unreliable. Even our well water tastes different."
A knock at our door startles us all. Mother's eyes widen in alarm—we rarely get guests, especially at this hour.
Father stands gently, setting aside his instruments. "Stay back," he cautions as he approaches the door.
When he opens it, my heart stutters. Four royal guards in polished armor stand at our entrance, the royal crest of a thorned rose etched on their breastplates. Behind them waits a silver-cloaked figure—an Inquisitor.
"By order of Crown Prince Thorne," their captain announces, eyes scanning our small dwelling until they concentrate on me. "All with earth magic are to be tested at the palace."
Mother steps in front of me. "There's no one with magic here. We're simple people."
The Inquisitor walks forward, drawing aside their cowl to reveal a woman with eyes like amber and hair as white as snow despite her young face. "We've heard reports of exceptionally strong herbs sold at the village market. Herbs that heal too rapidly preserve too long." My pulse beats. Last week, I'd convinced Father to sell some of my augmented healing herbs to a trader traveling through. We needed the additional pay for winter stores. "The penalty for harboring an unregistered magic-user is imprisonment," the Inquisitor adds, her golden eyes never leaving my face. "The penalty for lying to an Inquisitor is worse."
"Please," Mother whispers. "She's just a girl."
The Inquisitor raises her hand toward me, palm up. A little seed lies there, unremarkable and brown. "If you have no magic, you have nothing to fear. Touch the seed."
I know the test—a seed responds to soil magic, no matter how neatly veiled. If I touch it, it will sprout instantaneously, confirming their suspicions. If I refuse, they'll take me regardless.
Father moves to obstruct their path. "Our daughter stays here."
The guard captain moves forward. "Resistance will only make things worse for your family."
I see the terror in my parents' eyes, the determination to protect me even against unimaginable odds. If I don't cooperate, they'll be arrested—or worse.
"I'll go," I respond, stepping around Mother's protective arm. "I'll touch your seed."
"Briar, no!" Mother cries.
But I've already chosen. I stretch out with shaky fingers and touch the little seed in the Inquisitor's hand.
It doesn't just sprout—it erupts into a perfect miniature rosebush, complete with tiny red blossoms.
The Inquisitor smiles coldly. "Extraordinary. The prince will be quite interested."
"You have your proof," I respond, attempting to keep my voice steady. "Let me gather my things."
"There's no time," the captain replies. "The royal gardens worsen by the day."
Two guards take my arms before I can respond. My folks shout out in protest.
"Please," I beg. "Just to say goodbye."
The Inquisitor hesitates, then nods once. The guards release me but remain close.
I hurry to my parents, embracing them both. Mother's tears wet my shoulder, while Father's strong arms quiver about me.
"The other gardeners," Mother whispers urgently. "They never returned."
"I'll come back," I promise, but terror makes the words freeze in my throat. "I'll find a way."
Father presses something into my hand—a little cotton satchel. "Your grandmother's seeds. Keep them hidden."
Before I can react, the guards drag me away. As they lead me outside, I gaze back at our cottage one final time. My parents stood in the doorway, faces blanched with panic.
In the eastern sky, black clouds collect despite the early hour, adding an unseasonable chill to the fall air. As the guards escort me to a waiting carriage, I observe frost edging the fallen leaves along our path—frost in early autumn.
Something is drastically wrong with Thornwall's magic.
The carriage door closes with a final bang, and I grasp my grandmother's seed pouch as tears blur my vision. Beyond the glass, my hidden garden recedes from view, the plants already drooping as if mourning my departure.
The dirt revealed its secrets to me all these years. I wonder what secrets lie in the withering gardens of Prince Thorne.